


I’ll Tell You That I Am If You Tell Me I’m Dreaming

by callmejude



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, Dubious Morality, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest Kink, M/M, Mental Breakdown, POV Second Person, Pseudo-Incest, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Robot protects Elliot from the worst of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Tell You That I Am If You Tell Me I’m Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> ...sorry.

Wherever they’re keeping you smells of blood and wet dog to the point of an onslaught. The blood is from you, you know that much. Every breath you takes is a shooting pain and a loud, wheezing rattle. You’ve probably punctured a lung. But it could’ve been worse. It _would_ have been worse.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t because of him. Whatever this is, he cares for you. He wanted to protect you. He loves you.

You can’t think. The pain is so bad it’s almost as if it’s not even there. Maybe you’ve stopped breathing. Maybe this is just the light flickering before it goes out completely. But in this instant, he’s holding you upright. He’s holding you close. He cares.

“Thank you.”

It’s hard to tell if he can even hear you. Your voice comes out a shattered whisper, still wheezing from lack of air. Maybe you don’t have enough time left for this to matter. You pull him closer. It matters right now.

You’re on the floor without remembering sitting down. He’s leaning over you, stroking your hair. He must have helped you down.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says when you look up. “Still with me?”

It’s a stupid thing to ask. You nod without saying so. He knows, anyway. You wonder, after he says it, if he’s trying to protect you again. From something worse. Or maybe just more of the same. Maybe he’s getting tired, maybe he can only pull you so far back. Not much time left, anymore.

“I’m sorry.” You didn’t mean to make this hard on him. You know he’s tired because you’re _so fucking tired._ You can’t remember the last time you slept. You had a routine, once. You remember that. It feels like years ago that you broke it.

“You don’t have to be sorry, son.”

You wish he wouldn’t call you that right now, but you’re not sure why. You click your tongue and taste copper. He lets out a sigh and drops his head back against the wall. If you concentrate you can smell him over the piss and blood of the room. Old Spice and the warm dust smell of microprocessors. Scent is the strongest form of memory.

In a blink, you lose time again. Not much. An hour or so, maybe. A few minutes. You can’t really tell in here. You’re unsure if you just passed out or if he was trying to take your pain away again. He’s still seated next to you on the floor, so you drop your head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around your back. It’s nice. Comfortable. The pain fades a little more.

A week ago you’d hate to admit that it’s better to have him here. You feel safer. Less lonely. For the first time you honestly believe that he’ll protect you. Maybe you aren’t dying. Maybe he’s saving you from that. Your head is in his lap. You don’t remember doing that yourself, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s petting your hair again, and you’re not sure what possesses you to grab his hand, but you do.

He squeezes back, fingers still nested in your hair, and it’s stabilizing in a way that makes you realize something worse is happening, again. You’re not sure how you can tell, but it’s making your heart beat too fast in your chest. He’s keeping you from something so much worse than now. You clench your eyes shut, as if the image will slip any minute.

It could. He’s so tired from this, constantly having to keep you safe.

“What —?” Your voice is rough and quiet and he shushes you before you can finish asking. You frown. Lick your lips. You wonder again if you’re dying. “What’s happening?”

He shakes his head. He knows what you’re thinking. “You’ll be fine, son.” 

Nervously, you nod. “Okay.”

You tell yourself you’re not thinking when you’re hand falls in his lap, but you are, and he knows it. He grabs for your hand but you shove him off. It’s hard to wrestle yourself to your knees, but you do it anyway. You told him thank you, but it’s not enough. You need to show it. You _want_ to.

That scares you, a little, but not enough to stop you.

His hands are in your hair, but they’re no longer trying to stop you. You want this, and he knows it, so he’s going to let you. Because he loves you. Your jaw is burning with ache but you force it out of your mind. He’ll take it from you if it starts to hurt too much. You trust him for that. 

When you take him in your mouth you’re clumsy and unpracticed, but the sound he makes is encouraging, so you breathe out through your nose and drag your head backward. His fingers clench in your hair and you want this to be good for him because he loves you when no one else does. He’s protecting you, he’s always protecting you. He deserves everything for that.

Sweat is thick on your tongue and your jaw feels heavy, but you were right. It isn’t as sore as you think it should be. He’s got your face carefully in his hands, guiding you as gently as he can, but you want this to be good. You push forward, into his hands and roll your tongue down as far as you can. He shivers a little, and you take it as a good sign, so you do it again. Up and back.

His fingernails scratch carefully over your cheeks and you whimper, feeling a hot bolt down your back. You move to hold his hips steady, but he takes your hands and pulls them back, giving them a soft little squeeze before cupping your face again.

“Careful, kiddo,” he tells you, voice shaking, “Breathe for me. Breathe.”

He shouldn’t be focusing on you. You don’t want that. You hollow your cheeks and drag your lips back slowly, and he sucks air loudly through his teeth.

There. That’s it.

You do it again, and his thumbs run encouragingly over your cheekbone. It’s strange, you can almost feel the movement of his hands against the cock in your mouth. His hips stutter, and your heart skips as you struggle to move with him. You look up from his lap to watch his face. He’s staring down at you reverently, and warmth pools in your chest.

He loves you. He does. He loves you and he’s _here._

Your eyes sting and your vision blurs. You drag your mouth up and back again, but he shushes you, quiet and gentle. 

“You’re okay, kiddo, eyes on me. You’re okay.”

 _Stop,_ you want to tell him. _This isn’t about me._ You can’t speak, and instead push down too quickly until your throat opens in a gag. Your face is wet and he’s still shushing you and you just want him to feel something. You push down again, forcing past your gag reflex, and for an instant you feel his cock at the back of your throat.

“ _Fuck._ ”

A flash of pride curls in your stomach and you do it again, practically crawling into his lap. One hand is on your jaw and the other is knotted in your hair, trying to hold your head still as his hips start to twitch erratically.

He’s close, and it’s because of you. You grab for him, and this time he’s too distracted to stop you. Your nails dig into his hips and he groans. Your eyes stay trained on his face. You need this just as much as he does. 

You feel your cock stir in your own pants, and he laughs as if he knows. He does, you remind yourself, whimpering. It’s only bringing him closer. 

Your throat twitches again, overeager. It’d be humiliating if you could think, but it’s all starting to cloud over.

“That’s it, son.”

Your body jerks involuntarily. Your moan is muffled against his skin, and he heaves a loud, high-pitched sigh that vibrates all the way down your spine.

When he comes, it’s bitter and thick and you choke, coughing when he pulls you off. You start to swallow before he can tell you, and he pats your cheek. “Good boy.”

Your heart is like lead in your chest at that. You feel hot all over. You look down at the cold cement floor and lick your lips.

“Started to enjoy it, didn’t you?”

It’s not his voice, and you blink back up at him, not understanding.

“Knew it when I saw you, _niñito._ ”

The world tilts a little, safety image slipping. He’s not looking back at you anymore. Instead an angry, scarred face grins back, smug and satisfied in a way that makes the bottom of your stomach fall away. An unfamiliar, tattooed hand reaches up to wipe your chin, and the face looming over you winks.

When your tunnel vision dissipates, you see the rest of him. Sleeves of his orange jumpsuit rolled up to reveal a Latin Kings crown tattooed on his forearms. Other men are standing off to the side, keeping watch out for guards. His friends. 

You feel queasy, knowing they were watching. It’s somehow worse than realizing what he kept you from. Or maybe you’re just in shock. It’s hard to tell anymore. Your body’s numb. Your jaw still doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

“We’ll be seeing you around,” the man purrs against your ear. You nod, keep your eyes down. They probably will. The rest of them will want turns.

You hope he’ll keep you safe next time, too. 

At least until it’s over.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Happy" by Mother Mother


End file.
